Old Wounds Reopened
by InfinitytimesInfinity8
Summary: Sherlock and John are needed for a special case. Some of Sherlock's past is revealed, and the beginning of Johnlock. it is a one-shot for now. May write a sequel but still not certain. If enough people want more, I'll write the sequel. This one shot is focused on Sherlock and not the case itself. Descriptions of abuse. Mycroft is a good big brother. Sequel now posted.


Sherlock stood in front of the living room window, gently playing his violin. It was so different from his usual playing; it was a sad melody, very mellow and lacked the _energy?_ that the rest of his pieces normally had. John wondered what exactly had led Sherlock to compose such a sad song—what was it that he was thinking of when he played it.

He was brought out of his musings by fast and heavy footsteps rushing upstairs, practically skipping upstairs. Their door was open and so John was able to see Lestrade rushing toward them and all at once, Sherlock's gentle and melodic playing stopped.

"What's different?" Sherlock asked, his voice was cold and unfeeling. John had taken to noticing that Sherlock always spoke like that in the presence of others, but never when it was just him and John, John was the exception.

"How did you know?" Lestrade asked back. He still had not gotten used to just how Sherlock could tell by just looking at him.

" _Please_ " Sherlock scoffed, his voice flat.

Lestrade merely nodded and sat on the sofa. _Obviously in somewhat of a hurry, which means that while it is urgent it is not a crime with any sort of major catastrophe. He came to me almost after being called in which means that he needs_ me _exactly to solve this crime._

Sherlock merely looked at the Detective Inspector sitting opposite him, not voicing any of his deductions, deciding to listen instead.

"Well, we got a call about an hour and a half ago from a 'Oliver Sharp', a distress call. His father a, Charles Sharp, stabbed his wife, Anne, 3 times before Oliver called the police. The father ran, but we managed to get Anne to the hospital just in time to save her. She'll be fine and able to leave in a week and a half. We aren't sure but…" he trailed off, obviously trying to find the right words. Sherlock cut him off—

"You think that the boy has been abused" He stated plainly.

"Dear God…" was Johns answer but Sherlock was too distracted to truly notice what was happening around him.

"The problem is that he hasn't spoken since he was taken into custody so he hasn't confirmed or denied that accusation. What is it exactly that you want us to do" he asked, hurriedly, his mind invaded by dark memories he had locked away in the deepest pits of his mind palace.

"I wanted to see if you could find out if he was abused or not so we can charge his father for that as well and if Oliver would know where his father would have gone or where he may be now"

Sherlock looked over at John, who seemed furious, obviously directed at the father, and he knew that they were going to take the case, no matter what consequences would lay ahead for Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded briefly to the D.I and he knew that they would help him. He got up and said 'you'll take the cab', not needing an answer and not receiving one; more of a statement than a question. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow but said nothing as the D.I excused himself and left. And close behind, Sherlock and John followed his police car, in a black Taxi

Sherlock and John followed Lestrade to the interrogation room, where they could see Donovan on the other side of the one-way mirror desperately trying to get the boy to talk. She got up and left the room, sighing when she came into the other side of the mirror, in front of the other adults.

 _That was it. He knew he would have to intervene before they segregated the boy further._

"I want to interview him. Alone." And with that, several loud and obnoxious comments were said. Before he let them interrupt him further, he continued. "You can step in at any time or remove me at any point—just…watch me through the mirror and if you disapprove you can remove me" he grunted out. He didn't want any of them finding out—Lestrade and John and Donovan and even Anderson— _Good God_ — but he had to do it. They might think he was just pretending or faking it – he _was_ good at that.

"Okay?" he asked, not waiting for an answer, knowing that Lestrade would agree to those _fair_ terms.

He saw them all move directly in front of the mirror as he went in. He opened the door gently and shut just as gently. The boy, _Oliver_ , looked up at the disturbance and then looked back to his lap. He sat down beside him and noticed that the boy was clutching a stuffed teddy-bear that had _obviously_ been very well looked after, that much was evident. It was a gift; a very cherished gift, most likely from his mother.

"I'm not going to ask if you're alright because that's a pointless question that I already know the answer to." He paused for a moment, knowing that he had Oliver's interest.

"Of course you're not alright, and you may never be _alright_ again," he could practically feel the adults, on the other side of the glass, ready themselves to remove him, "and that's okay. As long as you are aware that, then it's _okay."_ He stopped once more.

"You haven't played the flute recently, even though you love it, and you've been spending more time alone in your room than usual, holding onto your bear as you try to shut everything out. For a moment, it's like it works, you almost believe it. But then it doesn't—" he stopped abruptly as he felt Oliver move closer to him, but his mind was focused on old memories.

"What would you know about it?" the boy's tone wasn't accusatory, just raspy. _Most likely from his father trying to strangle him._

 _This is it._

"I have an older brother, Mycroft, and to my parents he was the perfect child. They had no wish for a second child and once they found out that my mother was pregnant, they both wanted to terminate the pregnancy. The problem was that the Holmes were held in great respect and anything to do with them was always the 'biggest' news and so everyone would know everything to do with them. Being held in high regard was a bad thing at that point, since the Doctor they had an appointment with would talk about it, they decided to 'keep' me. Had they no sense for such as frivolous things such as those then I would definitely not be alive today.

My mother had been a mathematician, cold and strict and like ice but my father…he was cruel, and merciless. My brother, however, was still innocent in that house. He had been 7 when I was born and already had an exceptional mind. My father, no matter how hard he tried, would never rival my brother nor I in intellect. _Brute strength_ , however, was another matter"

The adults in the other room knew exactly what he was saying and definitely didn't like what he was implying…

"Growing up, I was faced with coldness from my mother, cruelty from my father and insecurity from my brother. Unlike my brother, my intelligence was made known almost straight away. And that is what caused most of the problems in that _house_. Mycroft had only shown his talents at the age of 6, a year prior to my birth, but I had shown mine straight away. My father had regarded Mycroft as perfect in every way before I arrived, and he wanted to make sure that it remained that way.

He had unrealistic expectations since I learnt to walk. He wished for perfection and yet didn't at the same time. He wanted to see me fail. Nothing truly 'horrid' happened until I was four, when my family had discovered that I was a virtuoso and my talent with the violin. My father had handed one to me and demanded for me to play him Paganini's Barucaba an incredibly and notoriously hard piece to master for adults, much less for a 4-year-old-child.

He made me practice for 2 days straight. He stopped me from eating and sleeping and resting for those 2 days. He stayed up for the 2 days as well but he did eat. He made me play until my fingers bled and even then, he didn't let me stop, told me that such ''trivial things' had no place in my mind. I kept playing and my fingers kept bleeding and my hands began to cramp and so had my legs—he had decided that I would have to practise standing up.

At the end of the two days he requested I play it to him and to a professional so that they could decide how badly I had done. Had my fingers not been bleeding and my body not started to cramp, I am sure that I would have managed at least half of it perfectly. My father let me finish it and after dismissing the man, he took the violin from me and hit me with it until it broke."

He knew that everyone was shocked, they hadn't expected his past to be like that. Oliver had shuffled over mid-story and had taken to grasping his right arm with his small hands, whilst still holding onto his bear. Sherlock's eyes glazed over as he continued his story.

"Mother had no care for his treatment of me and on certain occasions would prevent the house staff from bringing me food, mainly when they locked me in my room when I was being too much of a pest. Had it not been for the small passage between my room and my brothers, I would've most likely died from starvation, which I'm sure is what they wanted. Mycroft would often sneak as much food as he was able to for me when he realised that I was locked in my room for more than 3 days. We would speak to each other through the small passage, too small to go through but big enough to pass plates of food.

When Mycroft turned eleven, he gave the one thing I still hold dear to me today, much like your bear. I had this unusual obsession with bees—he still argues that I still have it today—and gave me a stuffed bee. My greatest companion, my protector, when Mycroft wasn't there.

But whenever Mycroft was at boarding school, the house got worse. My father began to lock me in small, confined places such as cupboards. But whenever he didn't lock me away, when he put up with me, I would deduce everything to him. Though not really _to_ him, he just listened to them. Though many people don't believe me when I say this, I can't shut off my brain. It's always working and always thinking and it gives me the most awful of migraines. I see _everything_ even if I don't want to. And unless I say it, it will stay in my head and won't leave and nothing I could do would stop it.

My father soon began to use me when he made investments, wanting to make sure the men he was dealing with were trustworthy or not. He never called me by my name; I don't think I've ever heard him call me by my name. he called me a mistake, abnormal, unwanted, _freak_ , or anything else he could think of. It was only when I deduced that he was having an affair that any sort of _restraint_ that he had had, vanished.

He took to making sure I remained with the scars. He made them deep; he would pour salt and vodka into them and leave them open and repeat that every day until he got bored, which was rare. Mycroft helped me whenever he could, but he wasn't able to much at that point. My father had gone into my room for the first time when I was 10, he noticed my bee. He had made it his mission to make my life as horrible as possible, even making sure to bring in cold-hearted and uncaring and biased tutors so that I wouldn't go to school, it would be impossible, I was always covered in bruises. He offered me a deal; if I agreed to become his permanent stress-relief, I could keep my bee. He also told him that if I let Mycroft know exactly how he was treating me, that he would _burn_ everything that I cared about, and that he would kill me and burn me as well and throw my ashes into a bin.

It wasn't the first time he had threatened me and it _certainly_ wasn't the last. We made the deal. And it was only when Mycroft had almost finished university that he had come home one evening without letting us know. He had walked in on my father relieving his stress. He had tied me to a chair and poked me with a hot poker on my arms and my legs and my stomach and my chest. Just as he was about to finish cutting my back with it, Mycroft had come in.

I had never seen Mycroft like that before; like an avenging angel. He was like a Titan, a God, and he _raged_. He _shone_. He knocked out my father and just… _held_ me. He helped me pack anything of value from the house, which was only the bee and everything else Mycroft had given me. He took me to his home and ran a bath for me, he disinfected my wounds and cleaned them and slowly helped me heal. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry, so we just held each other through the night and he cried some more when I told him that he'd have to cry for both of us, that I was out of tears.

It would be a few days later that I would find out that Mycroft had our parents sentenced to life in prison in a maximum security prison, without revealing it to the public.

So yes, I do know exactly how you are feeling right now." And he finished his story. He didn't remember ever speaking that much before, and had he not been so caught up in his head and his memories, at he would have held back even more. He looked at Oliver, who was now staring at him. The small boy worked his way to his lap and hugged Sherlock. When he began to cry and to sob, Sherlock held him as Mycroft once held Sherlock.

"My dad usually stays at the Lost Prince Inn for a few days, I'm not sure if he's there now…" Oliver trailed off. Knowing exactly what he needed, Sherlock told him that he would make sure that he would see his mother in the next hour before leaving the boy in the room.

Sherlock exited the room knowing that everyone would be shocked. However, he wouldn't let that stop him acting professional in front of them and so pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind. Once he reached the adults he revealed where the father would be.

"There you go; I've solved your case. John." He called to his flatmate, which was an indicator for them to leave. Nobody was sure what to do or what to say and they all looked very pale. John rushed after him without even saying goodbye to the others.

They waited for a cab, still silent. One of them wasn't sure how to approach the other, and the second one didn't know how the other would react to what he'd learnt.

As they got into a cab, Sherlock received a text.

 _Do you need me?_

 _MH_

He quickly typed an answer back to his brother and put his phone away.

 _Not just yet, tomorrow morning. Thank you._

 _SH_

He didn't have to look at Mycroft's answer. He would know exactly what it said.

 _Any time, little brother_

 _MH_

Sherlock put his phone on silent and focused on his dilemma; he wasn't too sure where he stood with John at the moment.

The rest of the trip to their flat was silent and even as they go in, they were quiet. John put the kettle on immediately and set off to make two teas, as he normally did. Sherlock sat on the sofa and waited for John to question him.

"You never told me…I never knew that you grew up like that…" John wasn't too sure where he was going with that but continued anyway. The shock he had received today would not wear off any time soon; they both knew that.

"Was that the reason why you…" _did drugs_ was not needed to be said aloud, both knew what he was asking.

"Partly," Sherlock began, deciding to be honest to one of the few who truly cared about him, along with his brother and Mrs Hudson. "but like I said, my brain doesn't turn off and _using_ dulled the senses and relaxed me and for a while everything was quiet."

"Can I…can I see them, the scars I mean…" John pleaded, he had to see them, he _had to_.

Sherlock glanced at him with discomfort and trust and decided that there was no point in trying to run from this, so he slowly took of his coat and his shirt. Once he undid the buttons, he let the shirt fall off his shoulders seductively, though he hadn't meant for it to happen.

There was an intake of breath, _John_ , he hadn't expected them to be this bad. Sherlock's torso was full of circle scars, and so were his arms, _from the hot poker_ , but there were also scars for a blade and a few burns. His arms had the marks from the needles, the proof of his addiction, but they also had the marks of a person that had tried to end their life. The was a thick scar on his wrist from when he had tried to kill himself when he was still living with his father. John looked at Sherlock's back and saw just how worse it was. There were too many whip marks, that criss-crossed each other, to count, along with the many straight scars that had been caused by the poker. What made John cry, however, was the carved 'FREAK' on his lower back.

John held Sherlock's face with his hands.

"You are so _beautiful_ , Sherlock, do you know that? You're like a statue made of marble; perfect and flawless. And I hope you can forgive me for this…" John didn't complete his sentence as he kissed Sherlock.

This was not what he had expected but definitely what he had wanted for a long time. Sherlock let John hold him, feeling his warmth and kissed back. It was sweet and lovely and neither wanted to end it.

"Never again, Sherlock. No one will ever hurt you ever again"


End file.
